


All of the risk, none of the thrill

by frozenFoxglove



Category: Brainbent - Fandom, Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozenFoxglove/pseuds/frozenFoxglove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Vriska Serket, and while you're at St. Lobaf, you have a reputation as the biggest, most overconfident bitch ever to walk the earth.  It would be a lot easier to keep up the act, too, if you didn't have all these flashbacks and shit to show everyone that you have feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All of the risk, none of the thrill

**Author's Note:**

> So there's this amazing AU known as Brainbent. It's basically humanstuck with all the characters at a mental hospital called St. Lobaf, being treated for their canon mental illnesses. I absolutely love every Vriska, but Brainbent!Vriska is said to have Borderline Personality Disorder, which I happen to know a lot about... because of... reasons. Anyway, I loved her backstory, so I decided to write some flashbacks!

     You aren't sure exactly when you woke up.  At some point, your dreams had faded into the empty darkness of the room, the pain in your eyes where your filed blue nails had clawed at them, and the ever-present feeling of dread.  The sheets are tangled around you, and you clutch at them blindly.   _Please,_ you whisper.   _Someone, anyone..._

     Your name is Vriska Serket, and you are alone.  

     You open your working eye a crack.  The room is pitch black; you keep it that way because even though you're afraid of the dark, a dark room is anonymous. You could be anywhere.  You don't have to be at St. Lobaf, you could be somewhere better.  Hell, you could be dead.  Even as the feeling of darkness closing in terrifies you, it allows you to be no one, to be nothing. And that's the closest you've ever been to comfortable.  

     You reach under your pillow for your alarm clock.  The time reads 3:26 AM.   _Damn,_ you whisper aloud, then louder.  "Damn!"  There are hours yet before you're allowed to get up, grab coffee, whatever.  It's stupid that you can't have your coffee now, it's stupid that there are all these rules, it's stupid that you're here at all.  

     You sigh deeply, a few wisps of sleek black hair tossed on your breath, and you sit slumped on the edge of your bed.  The ebony silence is thick in the air, but not to the point of feeling oppressive.  

     It's almost peaceful here, if not for your own thoughts.  

     You've always told yourself that you hate the dark because of the way it becomes almost a tangible thing, but that's not true, and you know it.  Silent darkness scares you not because of what it could be full of, but because it is empty.  In the day, everyone else is so assured.  It's like everyone is an artist painting their personalities, and you don't know how.  You try to paint, you try until your fingers bleed, but everything you do is wrong.  Then night is like an obsidian canvas just for you.  If demands to be filled, it pressures you to be you, but you're so afraid.  Afraid you're not a real artist.  Afraid you're not real at all.  

     Normally, when confronted with this situation, you would start yelling, or turn on all the lights, or screw something up.  Just enough for some attention.  Just enough to prove you're alive.  

This time, though, something stops you.  Maybe it's the late hour, or the soft glow of your alarm clock, or a feeling you don't understand.  In any case, you leave the silence unbroken.  

     Everything you do is hiding.  Your overly confident personality is just hiding from your thoughts.  Being with people, binge drinking, sex... it's all hiding.  You wish you knew what you were hiding from.  It's times like these when you can't help but wonder if there really is something more to life.  Will you ever get the recovery everyone else is so enthusiastic about? And if so, will you want it?

     You slip back under the sheets and chase unconsciousness.  

 

                    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

     The face is foggy at first, and you blink until your vision clears.  

     It's a woman's face.  Framed by locks of wild black hair tumbling to her hips, her face is world-weary but gives of an unmistakeable aura of confidence and self-assurance.  You taste coffee on your breath.  

     She's wearing black leggings, a blue Scorpio crop top, and a black leather jacket.  Her makeup is all blue-- cerulean lipstick, royal blue blush, azure eyeliner to set off the deeper flecks in the celestine of her eyes.  On most people, that makeup would make them look like they had hypothermia, but on this woman it seems natural.  

     "Hey, Vee," she says, and you remember.  

     Your name is Vriska Serket, and you are thirteen years old.  You're looking at your aunt Mindfang.  (Yeah, real name.  She had it changed.  Weird.)  You're sitting at her table sipping coffee that tastes like something under the sink.  The weight of her gaze makes the sag of your clothes over your wiry frame all the more pronounced; you're sure she notices, but she doesn't yell at you for how you look like the kids at school do.  

     She's intimidating to say the least, but she's nice to you (even if she does swear a lot.)  You nod as she talks, secretly searching each word for veiled insults.  There are none to be found.  Never before has anyone treated you like this, like a human being.  Not once.  

 

 

 

     Your name is Vriska Serket, and you are fourteen years old.  Mindfang doesn't recognize you for a moment-- you're dressed like a mini-Mindfang yourself.  You have the same makeup, your hair is a sleek waterfall over your shoulders, and you're wearing the tightest clothes you could find.  (You couldn't afford a leather jacket.)  Your aunt's eyes widen as they take in the new look, the smell of too much perfume, the braces. You're half-afraid she'll yell at you, but instead, she nods.  

     "Nice look, Vee.  But I'll have to get you some shoes.  Those red boots certainly get the attention, but they'll fall apart in seconds."  She looks at you again.  "How about a jacket, too? Something not shittily made."  

     You profess you gratitude, then fill her in on everything that's happened: the people you've kissed, the fights you've gotten into... You mention your coffee addiction and the drama you've caused with more than a hint of pride.  She pours you a cup of coffee to match her own, and you in turn pour it down your throat without a thought.  

 

 

 

     Your name is Vriska Serket, and you are fifteen years old.  You see your aunt Mindfang pretty much every weekend now, and her face is as familiar as your own.  Her eyes have a spark of mischief today.  "What are you planning?" you ask, eyes narrowed.  By way of an answer, a slow smile spreads across her face, displaying white rows of teeth filed to points.  

     You follow her into the kitchen.  She takes down to glasses and fills each one partway with ice before holding aloft a bottle of brown liquid.  

     "Ever had alcohol before, Vee?" You shake your head, unable to hold back a grin.  "Well, first lesson.  This is rum.  It's the good kind too.  You don't want to waste this shit."  She pours a splash of rum into each glass, then fills them with Coke.  

     You grasp the glass she hands to you and take a cautious sip.  

     It tastes pretty much like Coke at first.  It burns a little, but not unpleasantly, and it's got a sweet and complex flavor.  It leaves your throat dry.  You're not sure whether you like it or not, but you finish your glass, which Mindfang promptly refills.  You just keep drinking sip by sip until you look down and there's just ice cubes in the glass and you hear Mindfang saying that's enough and you feel just a little dizzy and as your eyes close you think you remember Mindfang carrying you over to the couch and setting a blanket over you.  

 

 

 

     Your head hurts and you think your name is Vriska.  

     Some guy you were making out with at the party offered to drive you home, and you gave him this address.  The sprawling house is a blue smudge in your vision.  The boy parks the car and glances at you, concerned.  You manage to get the car door open, then stumble toward your aunt's porch.  

      _It's two in the morning,_ you think.   _What if she's not there? What if she gets_   _mad?_ You feel the carpeted porch under your feet and then your legs buckle.  

     And then she's holding your hair back while you retch into the toilet and maybe some time has passed but all you can feel is the bitter taste of acid and alcohol and how much your head throbs.  Your diaphragm is spasming, but you're not sure if you're laughing or crying.  

     You rinse out your mouth with water from the sink and sob into Mindfang's chest.  

     "Mindfang, they all h8 me, all of them."  (hiccup)  "Mindfang, I" (hiccup)  "I'm so afraid.  so afraid you're gonna h8 me too."  (hiccup)  "Mindfang, I love you, you've always helped me, you're the only one who gives a fuck, 8ut I, I... no one loves a pathetic 8itch like me, I'm so scared you'll wake up and see I'm scum and then I won't have any8ody to love me..." Your words are drowned out by sobs.  

     She pats your hair awkwardly until your sobs steady, and then you trudge to the living room couch, leaning heavily on Mindfang's shoulder.  By the time you get there, blackness is encroaching on your vision and you all but collapse on the couch. The last thing you remember is your aunt, giving you sips of water, saying, "Vee, there is nothing in the world that could make me hate you, do you hear? Nothing."  

 

 

 

     Your name is Vriska Serket, and you are seventeen years old.  And you like to go fast.  

     You're dating someone now, a short, stocky girl with blonde hair in a choppy pixie cut, and you're mostly dating her because she's okay with open relationships and she has a motorcycle.  

     You tell her you love her but both of you know that's not true.  When she takes you on her motorcycle-- your arms around her waist, your hair in the wind, your world dissolving into streaks of color-- that's what you really love.  She lets you borrow the motorcycle too, as long as you let her know.  

     Earlier tonight you asked her to hold you, and she did.  She fell asleep that way too, but you couldn't.  For a few hours, you savored the feel of arms around you and breath in your ear, but after a while it started to feel constricting.  

     You blow in her ear to wake her up.  

     She groans a half-hearted "Fuck off," and displays a middle finger, which you promptly bite.  She cracks open an eye.  "Whaaaat."  

     "Motorcycle?"

     She groans and rolls over.  "It's raining.  But whatever, do what you want."  She puts a pillow over her head and makes a  _shoo_ ing gesture.  "You woke me up at three to ask me one fucking word.  Why do I put up with this, anyway?"  

     You pull on your leather jacket in a practiced motion.  The lock clicks as you close the door.  You skinny jeans don't have much of a pocket, but you squeeze your phone in, just in case. 

     And then you're free.  

It's a matter of minutes before you're on the motorcycle and nothing matters anymore.  

     Rain taps on your face with cold fingers.  Locks of glossy black fly behind you in a stream.  You go faster, faster, until the world and all its problems are just long, horizontal smudges.  

     You're searching for a particular thrill you get from speed, a thrill at being nothing, dissolving along with the world around you.  Right now, all you feel is uncomfortable.  You're going faster than ever, and the force is pushing you back.  The rain pelts at you painfully and you don't feel that thrill at all, you don't feel invincible and alive.  You just feel very, very small.  A little girl caught in the dark.  A dead little girl masquerading as alive.  

     You mind is slipping, slipping, and suddenly you're terrified.  You hate the dark, you hate the rain you hate being alone.  You want to go back home, not to your parents, not to your girlfriend, but  _home_.  An ideal, somewhere you don't have to hide anymore.  

     And then you slip.  

     Maybe it's the rain on the ground, or the pitch-black night, or something else-- you don't have time to think about it.  You feel the tires lose traction on the road and panic, yanking the handlebars.  

     As you swerve and lose your last bit of control, you feel a different thrill, a weightless kind of thrill.  You think maybe this isn't such a bad way to die.  

 

 

 

 

     When you wake up, everything is white.  There's pain from every part of you, and you don't know where you are, or who you are, or what happened.  

     Pain is centered on your left side, especially your face and shoulder, but you ache all over and have a killer headache.  You want to get up and find out where you are, but you feel weak and just can't sit up.  You try to yell for somebody, but the only sound that comes out of your mouth is a dry, raspy noise.  

     You relax your tense muscles and try to concentrate on your surroundings rather than on how much pain you're in.  You're lying on something soft.  You're definitely indoors.  The only sounds are general white noise, occasional beeping, and footsteps going past.  

     And then there's a voice, cutting through the white noise.  

     "...done with waiting!  I want to see her  _NOW!_ "  

     "Ms. Serket, your time waiting is irrelevant.  The girl is not even conscious."  

     You exhale.  They're talking about _you_.  

     It's coming back to you.  Driving at night... an accident... and that would put you...

     In a hospital.  Of course.  

     "I don't give two fucks if she's awake!"  The other voice shushes her frantically, to no avail.  "She needs me, she needs to see me!" Her voice cracks and she says softly, "Please.  I need to see her.  I need to make sure she's all right."  

     A door opens and deliberate, high-heeled footsteps approach you, followed by softer, more reluctant ones.  You wonder who Ms. Serket is, because your mother wouldn't care about you that much, and then your vision is filled my Mindfang's face.  You never thought of her as a Serket, but you suppose she is.  

     Her face is familiar, but something is wrong.  Her face is raw and red and you realize you're never seen her without her makeup and you've certainly never seen her cry.  

     She looks at you and something in her expression crumbles.   _"She's awake,"_ she whispers.  " _God help her, she's awake."_

     You imagine how you must look-- limp hair slumping to the pillow, lumpy hospital gown, wires and tubes everywhere, injuries you're not even sure about yet.  

     She reaches out to touch you, but pulls back her hand before she reaches you.  

     "Vriska...  _why?"_

     Her voice is soft and quiet and the end squeaks a little and a tear slips out of one eye and when you see that, something in you breaks.  

 

                   -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

     You startle awake, your screams still hanging in the air.  

     You gasp for breath.  You check your pulse and it's racing.  What the  _hell,_ you're shaking.  You take deep breaths and silently remind yourself how catastrophically stupid this is.  

     Somebody knocks on your door.  "Fuck off!" you yell.  The door opens anyway.  

     Riiiiiiiight.  These shitty-ass institution doors don't  _actually lock._

     Piexes's face, filled with sickening pity, suddenly occupies your view.  A lock of her auburn hair comes lose from her bobby pins and lands on your arm; you bat it away, disgusted.  "H8w the hell do you get off just walking into my room like th8t? I could have 8een naked."  

     She winces.  "Vriska, )(on, it's not like you )(aven't already s)(own us far more t)(han we want to see."  You cackle.  

     She makes concerned faces and reassuring words at you for a few minutes.  According to the clock, it's 5:03 now, so you have time to kill.  

     She seems to have exhausted her stash of pep talks and moves to leave.  You absently watch her go.  

     You want to go home.  Not to your parents, not to some girlfriend of boyfriend, not to some stupid ideal.  No, you want to go home to Mindfang.  She's the only one who made you feel normal.  She had always been there for you.  Until one day when you did something so stupid that you got hurt.  Maybe she couldn't bear to care about someone like you.  Maybe... you don't even know anymore.  

     You give up on sleep and head toward the shower.  You can always use extra concealer to hide the circles under your eyes.  Or maybe you'll just spend the whole day in your room.  You don't care that much.  In fact, you don't care about anything.  You're in a drinking kind of mood and you miss the life you had.  At least you could be miserable in peace.  

 

                                                                             ****************

 

     Hundreds of miles away, a woman sits in her bedroom.  She wipes off the last of her blue lipstick and sighs.  

     She opens her picture drawer.  

     She gazes at the pictures.  Her and her sister, her sister and Vriska, her and Vriska... the smiling faces bore into her skull.  She hasn't seen Vee in so very, very long...

     She feels tears coming on again.  

     The woman's name is Mindfang, but as she weeps silently over the photographs, she thinks of a time when she was Aranea Serket and she swore she would be different.  


End file.
